


Of Flowers and Margarine

by TaleWorthTelling



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 10:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14872413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleWorthTelling/pseuds/TaleWorthTelling
Summary: You just want to help Bucky relax.





	Of Flowers and Margarine

You've been rubbing his shoulders for ten minutes, but the knots are tight and insistent, like the nagging worry that's keeping him poised to jump up in the first place. He likes this. He's happy. But there are so many plates spinning in his world. You've got responsibilities, too, but mostly to yourself. He's pulled in so many directions, by so many people, for so many obligations. Sometimes your head spins just thinking about all of the strings that lead into the palm of his hand where he clutches them together desperately, terrified of letting them go and letting someone down.

You keep quietly kneading.

"Hey," he says, turning to face you, stilling one of your hands with his warm fingers wrapping fluidly around your wrist. "This is nice. I really appreciate this. You've probably got better things to do, though, right?"

"Bucky," you say, disapproving and hoping that it shows. "Say something boneheaded like that again and see if I don't tie you to that headboard and have my way with you out of spite."

"That doesn't sound like a punishment," he muses appreciatively.

"Have you never seen yourself in the act? Not letting you use your hands is a punishment."

"I bet I'd do better than you think, doll. Have some faith. Maybe we'll try it some time."

And despite the fact that you're the one who brought it up, your face heats a little. "Well, you got me there."

"I got you always," he murmurs, turning over completely to cradle your face in his hands. He pulls you down, fingertips snaking back to press lightly into the base of your skull; and despite the intense, come-hither look you know he's trying to train on you, he can't help the smile that breaks through when he feathers his lips over yours, his tongue more of a tickle than a caress. 

You giggle without meaning to.

He snorts. Shaking his head, he reaches down instead to cup your backside and haul it closer to him, until you're poised over him, close enough to feel what could be, in time, quite a night. Not there yet, but better. There's a tingle starting in your inner thighs, muscles fluttering, and it wicks upward. Those aren't the only muscles energizing, searching; and it'd be a lie to say that leaning over him, touching him, focusing your soothing attention on him alone, didn't whet your appetite.

Or wet other things.

You shift a little, lowering even further, until he groans. You ruck your skirt up to pull it out of the way, one layer closer to him.

And then you remember, suddenly, why your ministrations hadn't worked: he's the caretaker. That's what he needs, to be allowed to care for someone with no strings, with low stakes, and just for the joy of it.

You flop over ungracefully, bouncing a little on the stiff springs of your sad little mattress, feeling the way your breasts bounce as well, small though they are -- and enjoying the way his eyes are drawn predictably toward them. Your nipples are getting hard to ignore, tight points against the coarse fabric of your blouse and so sensitive. So much sensation in every wriggle and arch of your back. 

"On second thought," you say, "three different men propositioned me at work."

His eyes narrow, fingers spasming on your hips.

"And walked out with three different shades of handprint on their cheeks," you finish. "It's been a day, baby. Why don't you do me now?"

He watches you for a moment, eyes dark, before his fingers crawl up your body to rest at your shoulder and gently but firmly guide you down, down, flat. He unbuttons your blouse in silence, but as his thumbs start to trace your collarbone, alternating light strokes with deeper presses into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, he sighs. "You're something else." 

The words are barely out before he leans down to suck an unholy bruise into the center of your chest. He loves to be between your breasts, always has for as long as you've let him, and he looks up at you now with his lashes lowered and lips shiny. He slips the last buttons and lets it fall open, but he leaves it on your shoulders for now.

He tickles your navel while he laps at the mouthful of your breast, not much but certainly enough for lips to open wide around, to suck and pull at and delicately pepper kisses about the underside. You can't help it: you laugh into your sigh, squirming away in one motion and pushing your chest toward him in the next, body unsure of which way to go or how to feel. He laps another moment at your damp nipples, then moves away. You have only a moment to shiver in the air that whispers across them before he reaches under you again and pulls you up into his arms, turns you over until you're sitting up in his lap.

He kisses you hard on the mouth, fingers already working into the muscles of your back, your sides, and it's nice, with his arms around you. You slip your blouse the rest of the way off and throw it somewhere over the side of the bed. You'll get it later, just in time for laundry day tomorrow. It's not the only thing that's going to need a good washing.

He noses at the underside of your chin, sucks lightly and lets his teeth graze your jaw. Your head is tilted up now and you can't see him, so you close your eyes. You'll never get tired of being in his arms, in his lap, in his sway. You drop one hand to his broad shoulder and the muscles are already softer, active and moving but not shot through with wire and stone. You love being able to do this for him, give this to him, and you really love that he enjoys this so much; that pleasing you is such a release for him. It's such a beautiful symmetry and you wonder how many people really get to share this.

That thought sours for a moment as you remember one potential candidate, but thinking about the skinny boy with the hard fists and sharp tongue makes a nerve flutter somewhere in your neck, knowing how much trouble he gets Bucky into. You can see it, why Bucky loves him so much, but you don't think love is always enough, and you're the one holds Bucky when he's overwhelmed, calms him when he's stretched too thin. Sometimes you think you're the only one who notices at all. 

It's not right, the demands put on him, but he accepts it, so you can, too. And he does love that crazy boy, so you can love him, too. But you get this moment, and all the others like it. This moment where he's yours and you're his and you can both forget for a little while what the street outside even looks like.

He hums into your shoulder when he notices your distraction, your name muttered around a wet hickey. "That bad, huh? I know what you need."

He gently, always gently, eases you off of his lap, and you lay down on your stomach by yourself. When his weight settles in behind you, you're reminded of the warmth between your legs, of the slickness and the emptiness. But you can wait.

He massages properly now, determined and thorough, and you drift some while he rubs you boneless. You let his voice wash over you, details of his day and the movie he saw last week and the new card trick he's trying to learn. You come back to yourself when his knee slides up the inside of your leg, higher, higher, until it's pressed almost where you need it. He pulls your hips up just a touch and it's right where it should be. You can't help the noise you make, the quick rush of air through your nose from deep in your chest, as you push back into it. It's good, so good. You pull your hips up more until your chest is pressed into the bed and your rear is all the way up. Surely it's an inviting sight for him, but all you care about for at least the next few minutes is grinding down into him.

He accommodates. His leg moves in little wobbly circles, keeping even pressure. You stretch your arms up over your head, under the pillow, fingers splayed wide and curling down into your damp palms. You're sinking down, lower and lower, body opening up and relaxing, and you could stay this way forever.

But you like the next part, too.

He takes your thighs in his hands and digs his thumbs in a bit, going at those muscles, too, before he pulls your legs further apart and drapes himself over your back to whisper in your ear. "You up for it?"

You choke back a laugh, but barely. Really? _Really?_ "I was expecting something more romantic."

He snorts. "What, like ..." He casts about for a moment, one hand by your shoulder supporting himself and the other palming and gripping your rear. "I'll make love to you until the dawn rises anew, my sweet nectar flower. Your eyes like the ocean blue and hair golder than--"

You elbow him in the side.

"Okay, eyes like that sign at that bakery I pass on the way here. It smells nice, like you. You smell nice. Hair like that dye packet they put in the margarine --"

You can't take it anymore. You laugh until you have to roll over onto your side, throwing him off. "Margarine? A bakery?"

He shrugs, grinning. "You both make me hungry. But you smell better."

"Oh, Mary and Joseph, Buck." You cough a little to round out your belly-aching laughter, clearing your throat and wiping your eyes a little. "You had me at 'sweet nectar flower.'"

"Okay," he says, rolling over to lean on his elbow and cover you with his body once more, looking into your eyes. "How's this? I'm gonna hold you open and slide inside where I ought to be, nice and easy 'cause I bet you're real wet, and you're gonna put some prints on my back from wrapping your legs around me so tight, and I hope you do, 'cause I like the ache. But you, you're only gonna feel pleasure. Everything good I got, I'm gonna give it to you. I'm gonna light you up."

You swallow hard. It's not what he's saying, but the intense way that he says it, the heat rolling off of him to you, the hard press of his hip bones into yours through your clothes.

You shove a hand down the back of his pants and give him a squeeze. "You gonna do it now, or we gonna talk about it some more?"

The smile he gives you is electric. He kisses you hard, fast, before he rolls off of you to shimmy out of his clothes and tug off your skirt and underwear. You're always impressed by how quickly he can get naked (and get your clothes off as well); it seems to take him forever to put them back on, lounging about with the buttons open and his shirt off, but that's just nice.

"You don't waste any time," you murmur into his neck once he's settled back into place. He's hard against your leg and moving a little without really thinking. He's totally in the moment, not worrying about everyone, not wondering what his friend or family is off doing, and this is what you wanted. What he needs.

"Make haste, and all that."

"Not too hasty."

"For you," he pauses to say, taking your face between his palms to kiss your forehead, "anything."


End file.
